


you've been gone for so long, i'm running out of time

by orphan_account



Series: broken string [8]
Category: Doctor Who, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, U G H, have you ever uploaded smth that was pure trash just so you wouldn't have to look at it anymore, i don't remember writing this and i don't want it, may the internet take this so that we may cleanse our hands and souls of it, that's what this thing is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someday, somewhere, two brothers meet a man with a telephone box and everything changes (and nothing was the same).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've been gone for so long, i'm running out of time

**Author's Note:**

> i legitimately don't remember writing this but there it was in my old fics folder
> 
> a bunch of non-chronological happenings

* 

It never happens in order. 

The Doctor is there when Dean dies, solemn eyes and a caustic smile. He’s there when Dean is raised too, squared jaw and floppish hair. 

The Doctor was there when Dean was in hell, leather jacket and Northern accent. 

Sam remembers him this way the most. 

* 

For Dean, it’s Jack. 

Jack _fucking_ Harkness, who shows up one night at a bar, flashes Dean a smile, and never leaves. 

Out of everyone – Martha, Donna, Rose, Amy, even Rory – Jack understands the most. 

When Dean sits on the edge of his shit motel bed for seven hours, clutching waterlogged tan fabric beneath his fingers and making broken, hurt sounds, Jack the one is running a soothing hand up and down Dean’s back, and pressing a kiss to his forehead, because Jack _gets_ it. 

* 

“Hullo Sam,” The Doctor says brightly, slinging an arm around Sam’s shoulders and steering them towards the TARDIS. 

* 

Dean is staggering down the dirt road, the heat of the sun almost unbearable. Everything is pain, sharp points prickling at every nerve, a sensory overload – he can barely walk straight through the pain of simply _feeling_ his legs again, feeling the push of the ground against the push of his feet. 

It’s dusty. 

He’s so busy trying to make sure to put one foot in front of the other that he almost doesn’t see them. 

“R-Rory is that--” 

“Dean?” 

Amelia Pond’s eyes, thick green like summer leaves, are wide and terrified. Rory’s gone pale, but solider that he is, his gaze never once strays from Dean’s form. Dean blinks, once, twice, and when he next looks, Rory’s robed in luscious crimson, a Roman short sword braced against his left forearm. He blinks again and Rory looks stumped and has a ponytail. 

Everything flickers, once, twice, like static or snow. He closer to them now and every stumble he makes raises a cloud of dust that swirls around his feet and drifts away. His vision of them keeps flickering – one moment they’re there, and the next Rory is a soldier and Amy has a baby – and Dean thinks he might’ve broken something, as the Doctor would put it, _timey-wimey_. 

* 

“Father,” Castiel begs, his voice rough and broken, “I need to know that I am on the right path. Send me a sign, _please_ -” 

Blue, in the corner of his eye. 

He lifts his head slowly, and sure enough, the familiar blue phone box is nestled in this man’s heaven. The Doctor is standing before the TARDIS, watching him. Coldly, darkly. Disapproving, Castiel thinks is an appropriate label. 

Castiel knows that he has been no saint, in trying to keep up with both Raphael and Crowley, but the Doctor is hardly one to pass judgment. Castiel knows of the Gallifreyan’s less than wholesome deeds just as the Doctor knows of his literal dealings with demons. Castiel raises his head a bit more, challenging, and stares the Time Lord down. The Doctor holds his gaze for a moment, unwavering in its intensity, before turning and stepping into the TARDIS. 

He disappears without a word. 

Castiel’s head falls back down, and he laments. 

* 

“Come on,” The Doctor whispers, holding a hand out. 

The light from the inside of the TARDIS is the only light in the room. Castiel can feel himself shaking – trembling and tensing – with what might be shock, or perhaps fury. It’s hard to tell. 

Dean and Sam and Bobby’s words are an ever present echo, unrelenting and repetitious. Their accusations have left him bleeding, and unsure. How is it that they can be so quick to judge? How are they so- so _ungrateful_ , of all that Castiel has sacrificed? Do they not understand that _they_ taught Castiel how to rebel, how to be free, but not of the consequences, the difficulties? Why is it that they are allowed to do all they wish to throw the Heavenly Host into disarray, but Castiel is not allowed to save it? _**Why**_ \-- 

“Castiel,” The Doctor urges, softly. His eyes are large and sad, his eyebrows furrowed. It’s a stark contrast to his earlier – later – contempt, and Castiel wonders how much time has passed - rewound? - for the Time Lord, to be wearing his first – ninth – face and looking so miserable about it. The Doctor’s hand is still out, and he’s looking at Castiel imploringly. Castiel takes a halting step forward, taking great lengths to avoid the ashes and remnants of the ring of holy fire. Three steps to the Doctor, and he slips a jar into the Time Lord’s open, waiting palms. 

“I was going to gather all of them, the souls of Purgatory, consume them,” he admits flatly, “And use their power to give Raphael an ultimatum.” 

He hears a shift of cloth as the Doctor nods. He won’t look up though, not when he’s close enough to make out his face. He won’t see another friend look at him with such hurt and derision. He won’t. 

A hand, warm and strong, cups his jaw. It doesn’t try to lift his head, and for that he is thankful. 

“Let’s go now,” The Doctor says, herding him into the TARDIS, the jar for Purgatory souls vanished into some pocket of space, “away from these bad memories.” 

* 

“They were scared, as far as I can figure,” The Doctor tries later – much, much later and yet not much time has passed at all – gesturing absently with his strange human cuisine. 

He has a new face, the eleventh, younger and more childish. 

“I have given them no reason to fear me,” Castiel retorts, feeling the low simmer of anger that has become common anytime he thinks for too long on the betrayal of the Winchesters, “They accuse me, slanderous and wild remarks, when I have given _all that I am_ for them-” 

“Him,” The Doctor cuts in, tucking away his food with gusto. They are in the house of a little girl named Amelia Pond, who is watching with pure curiosity from the other side of the table. 

“You gave a lot, Castiel. Probably more than you should’ve. But you didn’t do it for the Winchesters, you did it for Dean, and for Sam and Bobby by proxy.” 

It’s true, a statement of fact, but it brings a rush of emotions – nostalgia and loss and fury and pain – that he cannot handle, so he does not dwell on the thought. 

* 

“You should go talk to your friends,” Amelia Pond tells him solemnly hours later, holding his hand in hers. He does not remember when or why they took each others hands but Castiel lets himself be pulled along for the moment. 

“We no longer have anything to say to each other,” Castiel says flatly, and Amelia frowns. 

“You’re bein’ stupid,” She pushes, and strangely enough, Castiel finds himself unable to take offense, “Friends are important. Both of you are doin’ stupid things, so just be stupid together instead of bein’ stupid apart.” 

The Doctor – this young, bright face will take a little more getting used to – chuckles, and situates himself between Amelia and Castiel, taking each of their hands in his own. 

“Brilliant advice, Amelia Pond! I pick them well, don’t I, Castiel?” 

Castiel catches Amelia’s eyes, and they both roll their eyes skyward. Amelia giggles. 

“Whatever you say, Doctor.” 

* 

"Castiel, don’t!” The Doctor yells, but he knows it’ll be of no use. 

Dean and Bobby and Sam are here, and the Doctor wants to shake them, ask if they see yet what they’ve done. Crowley and Raphael, no more nor less innocent, shield their eyes, but he stares straight at Castiel watching grace and soul glow brighter and brighter until the light can do nothing but _explode_. 

* 

For one second, _one second_ , Sam grabs Lucifer and **pulls** , and suddenly, he has his body back. 

Dean is bloodied on the ground, and Michael is wearing his little brother’s body ( _ohgod **Adam**_ ) and Sam has to **fix** this. The door to the cage is open – a chasm of nothing, no light, no sound. 

He takes a deep breath, because fixing this or not, he’s about to jump into hell, and the devil has taken up residence in his body. Inhale, exhale. 

He opens his eyes. Another figure stands on the final battleground, one that wasn’t there a moment ago. 

Rose. 

No, he realizes. He can feel power, raw and heavy, in the air. More than archangels, bigger than the Apocalypse. 

Bad Wolf. 

When she sees that she has his attention, her entire body flares, eyes alight. She gives him a solemn look, a look that says every single _I wish you didn’t have to_ and I’ll fix this that no one else had bothered to give. Sam thinks he might cry. 

He smiles, and Michael leaps forward, denial on Adam’s lips and Sam closes his eyes because they did it and- 

They Fall. 

* 

“This is mad!” The Doctor snaps, his features angry in the flickering firelight. 

“What would you have me do, Doctor?” Castiel asks, somewhere between resignment and frustration. 

“Come back,” the Time Lord urges, pleads, “Come _home_ , Castiel!” 

Castiel turns his head away, and is silent for a long moment. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, solemn but unyielding in the face of the Doctor’s begging. 

Everything goes white. 

* 

Dean drinks like prohibition’s coming back in style, swallowing down every last goddamn drop he can get before someone takes it all away. He ignores the look equal parts amused and concerned of the bartender, and gestures for the shots to keep coming. 

“How’s it hanging, handsome?” comes an amused voice, low and masculine, close on his left, "I'd offer to buy you a drink, but I think you've got it covered." 

Dean doesn’t let his shoulders tense, but tightens his grip on his glass. 

“Sorry pal, but you’re not my type.” 

In reply, he gets a scoff. 

“I beg to differ,” the guy says smoothly, and you know what, _fuck this_. 

Dean slams the glass down and turns to rip this asshole a new one, because what the _fuck_ would he know about Dean’s _type_ , but the second he turns around, he stops short. 

“Blue eyes, trench coat, unspeakably old and mostly immortal? I’m your type on _legs_ , big boy,” Captain _Jack fucking Harkness_ says, eyes crinkling into a smile. Dean knows he’s staring, but _holy shit_. 

“We thought you were dead,” he manages, his throat suddenly dry as all hell. 

“I got better,” Jack purrs, settling down next to Dean at the bar and gesturing for a drink. 

“We- _I_ thought you were dead,” Dean mumbles, because that means something different. 

Jack turns to him and stares, eyes narrowing. Dean knows he looks like hell, and he knows Jack will pick up on it. 

“Where’s Cas, Dean?” Jack says, good humor gone, as he accepts his drink from the barkeep with a nod. 

“Gone,” Dean manages, decidedly not thinking about it. Jack lets it sit, but not for too long. He's never been good at letting Dean ignore things. 

“Gone?” Jack parrots sharply, because he knows Dean and he might love Dean-and-Cas like he loved (still loves) Ianto, “What does that mean, ‘Gone’?” 

“Means that jackass swallowed a bunch of souls to take out Raphael and then went supernova on us. Turns out some of the souls he downed thought they’d do better in charge.” 

Dean’s tone is flat, but he’s trying too hard. Jack flags down the barkeep, pays both their tabs and manages to move Dean along, into an alley. 

“You gonna beat me up, like he did?” Dean mocks, posturing for all he’s worth. 

Jack pushes his sleeves up in reply. Dean swallows heavily, but Jack just pulls him closer. 

“Hang on,” the time agent mutters, slamming his palm down on the vortex manipulator. 

They disappear. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> no seriously what the actual fuck was past me on


End file.
